


blood and moonlight

by loverboybuch



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Werewolves, essentially vaguely rewriting the companions ceremony, technically written gender neutral dragonborn but i intended it to be gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28626066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverboybuch/pseuds/loverboybuch
Summary: Across from you, the source of the heavy breathing, is a tall, thick, hunched figure. Long, clawed limbs, shaggy fur along the back and shoulders, a long canine muzzle, dark ears that brush the ceiling. You know exactly what this beast is, having seen Farkas take on such a form not so long ago, but seeing a second one doesn’t remove the primal reaction of fear.A werewolf.
Relationships: Aela the Huntress/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Kudos: 6





	blood and moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> i played through this scene in oct and was mildly disappointed when i remembered you dont get Bitten so. i fixed that. mildly h*ny ?

Night falls over Whiterun. The cool Frostfall air chills you as you open the large wooden door of Jorrvaskr, the sounds of the companions laughing, eating, bickering and drinking falling quiet as the heavy doors creak shut, not one of them paying you any mind. Your heartbeat picks up just so slightly underneath your armor. You have the souls of dragons within you, but still this secrecy makes you nervous, and you fight the urge to keep a grip on your weapon. 

Before your tension can get the best of you, you round the mead hall and catch sight of Skjor leaning against the stone cliff beside the path to the Skyforge.His good eye has already met yours, and in the light of the moon the scar along his cheek that blinded his left one stands out even sharper. He does not smile, but gives a gruff noise in greeting before righting himself.

You stand before him, your heartbeat still quick, trying to search the cliff face for the hidden entrance the Nord had told you of that afternoon.

“Are you prepared?”

His voice brings your eyes back to him. The companions put stock in boldness, bravery, and when you speak you coax steel into your voice. “I'm ready for whatever test is next.”

Skjor laughs, a short flat noise. “This is no test, new blood. This is a gift.” He turns from you, approaches the stone, runs his hands along it. When he pauses, his fingers press, and with an unnaturally muffled scrape a large stone shifts aside, revealing a circular cavern within. Skjor stands aside, gestures. “Come inside.”

You don’t hesitate, and as you pass him the stone scrapes back into place, still somehow quiet. The interior is dim, and you can hear heavy breathing, and the tension that had not yet faded springs taut, the instincts that have kept you alive so many nights on the roads kicking in as your eyes begin to adjust, but before you can draw your blade Skjor’s voice fills the cavern, walking behind you and further in.

“I'm glad you came. It's been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our numbers. That pitiful ceremony at the hall does not befit warriors like us. You are due more honor than some calls and feasting.” He sparks a torch on the far wall, and you flinch against the light for just a moment, and your breathing stops. 

Across from you, the source of the heavy breathing, is a tall, thick, hunched figure. Long, clawed limbs, shaggy fur along the back and shoulders, a long canine muzzle, dark ears that brush the ceiling. You know exactly what this beast is, having seen Farkas take on such a form not so long ago, but seeing a second one doesn’t remove the primal reaction of  _ fear _ .

A werewolf.

The instant panic must be clear on your face, for when Skjor speaks again there is a hint of mockery. “I would hope you recognize Aela, even in this form. She's agreed to be your forebear.” And as you watch the werewolf, you think you begin to see it. Three long streaks of off-color fur across the face, a mirror to Aela’s facepaint. The russet of the fur, the sharp intelligence of the pale yellow eyes. Your heart never slows, but the racing feels different. Stemming from a different, adjacent emotion. Aela the Huntress is sharp, hard, handsome and abrasive. Her voice is as rough as her tongue, and while the two of you are not exactly friends, you’ve  _ always _ been a sucker for sharp women, and the thought of her already tough appearance hiding the fury and strength of lycanthropy just beneath the skin is startlingly fitting, and strangely captivating. 

Skjor moves closer to Aela, and he puts his hands on a large stone basin in the center of the room, the inside stained dark. “We do this in secret because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we've been granted. He thinks we've been cursed. But we've been blessed!” There’s conviction in his voice, an eagerness, more emotion beyond hostility than you’ve ever heard from him, and a  _ low _ rumble comes from Aela, the beginnings of a growl. Your eyes shoot back to her, the sound striking you instantly, and you can see her ears are still forward—erasing all confusion that the growl is anything other than ardent. “How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse? So we take matters into our own hands. To reach the heights of the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf.”

You tear your gaze from Aela, unable to disguise your bewilderment.

“Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?”

Become a lycanthrope? Worry stabs at you. Is this a threat? Is this a punishment for learning about Farkas’ moon-blood? You shift your weight tentatively, trying to weigh if you could guess where the door activation is. “And if…I don’t  _ want _ to be a werewolf?”

The almost-eagerness fades and his expression returns to his characteristic sternness. He dips his head just slightly, lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “That is your choice. We will not force you. But to join the Circle, your blood must be as ours.”

The rumble from Aela never quiets, a hum that echoes in the cavern, rings in your ears, gathers in your sternum, growing louder and more bass. You can feel your pulse hammering through you. Your eyes dart back to the huge, taut beast form of Aela, and her lips pull back to reveal  _ sharp _ white teeth, her ears still forward, her eyes still eager. 

And you think. About every close call, every tough scrap, every almost-loss. About the possibilities, the thrill of what that transformation could bring, the speed, the strength. About every awful thing you and everyone else you know have heard about werewolves and all the fear accompanying it, all of it directed to you.

You swallow hard, heartbeat stuttering, and scrape out, “I’m ready.”

Skjor’s spine straightens. “Very well.”

You look back to the basin as the Nord removes his hands from its edge and steps back. He gestures to Aela and her growl quiets, the noise becoming the most intimidating purr one could imagine. She prowls closer, and you find it harder to breathe, your heart hammering in your throat, a mix of panic and…anticipation. Beneath the instinct urging you to flee, you can feel clawing to the forefront, an ache, a desire for that strength. For yourself, or from her, you’re uncertain. Perhaps both.

You can feel the warmth of her body, blocking out the light of the torch, backlit just faintly, as she looks down at you. The heavy rise and fall of her chest steadier than the quick erratic breathing of your own. Her lips curl, in what you swear is a smirk, and you can feel the growl on your skin, in your veins, tugging at you. Heat burns through you, and your eyes shoot between hers, her teeth as her mouth opens so slowly, the claws of her hands as she reaches for your body. You glance towards Skjor, his body angled away from you and the Huntress, and you feel strangely relieved.

That purr of a growl is all you can hear, and when her hands touch you—one on your hip, the other on your shoulder—you gasp, inhale the deep, woody scent of her and the heat under your skin grows. A low, rasping, faltering noise fills your ears as Aela chuckles, and you clamp your mouth closed. The brush of her muzzle against your face is strange, and you hear her quiet, rough words. “ _ Your blood runs hot _ .”

And suddenly her teeth are in your shoulder.

Your cry out, a shocked, strangled noise. Pain is no stranger to you, but this is different. It’s not even the worst wound you’ve ever had, and it's not your sword arm, but it's  _ hot _ , burning heat spreading from where Aela’s teeth sink in out to the rest of body. Her growl picks up again, still low, and your eyes flutter closed, head tilting back, away. She tilts her head towards you, relaxing her bite just enough to not tear your shoulder apart, before putting pressure back on. You gasp, and press your head against her, heat surrounding you. You can feel the burning slowly spreading, from your shoulder to your heart and then out to the rest of your body and you ache. 

And then her teeth are gone. You're left ragged and gasping as she lets you go, and you stumble forward just slightly, just enough to be embarrassed. There’s blood on her mouth, your blood, and you can hear her chuckle. Heat races through you with every rapid heartbeat, and Aela holds out a clawed hand towards Skjor.

Skjor turns towards her, pulls her hand over the stone basin, and cuts open her arm, the blood dipping down into the bowl. “An added precaution,” he huffs, “to ensure the transformation will happen.” Aela pulls her hand away, clutches the gash, blood dripping around her fingers.

Skjor gestures to the bowl. You feel dizzy, disoriented, warm and taut, but you step forward. You cup your hands and dip them into the blood of the woman—the werewolf—who just had her teeth pressed into your shoulder, which you can still feel bleeding. 

You lift the blood to your lips and drink. 


End file.
